Chapter X: Book FOUR (6)

Beguildy and Jancis went to the inn with the Grimbles to sign the prentice paper binding Jancis for three years. She was to drive back with them that night. She was free till then, and Gideon said seeing she was going to work for Lullingford New House, she ought to have a look at it. So off they went, while I minded the stall.

I’d all but done, for the place being fuller than ordinary, the things went off pretty quick. The lines of young people had shrunken till there were only a few left that were wanted by none. These were such as were known to be over-fond of the bottle or to have a base-born child, or to be incurables of some crippling disease, or not to know rightly what was their own and what was other people’s. I used to wonder how they felt, poor folk, going jogging along in the evening, back where they came from. I was glad I worked at whome, and had no need to go and be hired, for certain sure nobody ud have taken me. It was a bitter thought, that.

The market-place was emptying fast, for the people were getting some refreshment afore the bull-baiting. But I’d still got some daffodillies to sell, and Gideon didna like anything to go back. So I sat still, in the quiet afternoon, looking down the empty street where the shadows of the lilacs and seynty trees lay very dark and pleasant. I noticed that Missis Grimble was there too.

She was packing up, and as she put each pat of butter into the basket she gave it a look as much as to say that she’d give it a bit of her mind after, for not being sold.

In a while she came across to me.

“You be sister to my new dairymaid’s young man, binna you?”

“Ah.”

“I’m in behopes they’re serious?”

“Oh, ah!”

“That’s right. I like my wenches to be walking out afore they come, and with a chap at a distance. I’ve got sons, and it’s a deal safer. And so long as the chap’s at a distance and canna be got at, it dunna hinder the work. Well, I’ll be going now. They loose the first dog on the bull in an hour, and I must get a cup of tea first. I never can enjoy anything proper, nor take notice, if I’m clemmed. Whether it’s a wedding or a confinement, a baiting or the Lord’s Supper, I canna truly enjoy it as it should be enjoyed unless I’ve got a pint or two of good strong tea inside me. Well, good day. It’s a great affliction for ye.”

She went back to her stall to gather her baskets.

There now! Never could I be left in peace. Never could I be let to get away from my misfortune. Here I sat, as peaceful as could be, till she must come up and say that. “A great affliction.” But afore she said it I’d forgotten it, so I hadna got it. I was out of the cage till she put me in again. I was vexed, and the tears stood in my eyes.

Suddenly, along the quiet road, through the shadows, and through the mist on my own eyelashes, I saw somebody coming. A man, it was. And if there be any meaning in the word as I hanna thought on, let them that read put it in. Let them put the strength and the power, the kindness and the patience, the sternness and the stately righteousness of all good men into that word, and let him wear it. For it was himself, Kester Woodseaves, the maister.

He came along without haste, as if he had some great business to attend. I saw that he was in his best—the black beaver hat, green coat, flowered weskit, and the Wellington boots.

“Weaver, weaver!” called Missis Grimble. “When’ll you work for me next?”

He looked up, and came our way.

What did I do, I, that knew his smile was my summer? Why, I got up so hasty that I upset the daffodillies. I left all our baskets and butter-cloths, and the jam-pots for flowers, and I ran from the place as if summat was after me. But, being that the market was at the end of the road, and only open in front, there was nowhere for me to go but into the market-keeper’s office, which was a dark room at the back of the market, and had a small window with no glass, looking on the stalls. So I couldna help but hear all they said.

“Why, lookye!” Missis Grimble screamed out like a cackling hen, “her’s fled away as if you were the murrain or the Lord or the bailiffs. What ails the wench? Mostly I see ’em run _to_ and not _from_ when a young chap comes along.”

“Who _be_ she?” asked Kester.

He had ever a very out-of-the-ornary voice. It was like as if, when he spoke, the sound of the speaking made the world new for itself, not caring about the old world. It was like a wide, blossomy thorn-tree on a sweltering day in early June. You could sit down under it and rest you. And it was like the still hearth-fire on a winter night, when wild Edric’s out in the forest, and the curtains be close, candles snuffed, all fast, and the master of the house raught whome.

“Who _be_ she?” he says. And even though it be only a passing thought and three words, I’m a flower that knows the sun.

“Why, her be Sarn’s sister from away yonder at the mere. Prue Sarn. The woman with the hare-shotten lip. A very queer creature. But it makes ’em queer, you mind, to be born the like of that. Some say she’s a bit of a witch.”

He said nought, but he went across and picked up my flowers, setting them in the jam-pots man’s fashion, a bit clumsy and all thumbs, enough to make you cry with love. I could see from the dark at the back of the office.

“A very neat, tidy figure she’s got,” he said. And in a minute I knew that he knew I’d heard, and so would ease the wound. Oh, most kind maister, the very marrow of Him that loved the world so dear!

“Be you going to the baiting, Mister Woodseaves?” asked Missis Grimble.

“Why, yes and no to that.”

“Eh?”

“You’ll see in good time, Missis Grimble.”

With that he went on his way. And what did I do? I did a thing I never thought to do for any man, so forrard it was. I came out of the dark room, straight into the sunlight, and step by step along the road I followed him, as if I’d no bashfulness at all, such as every girl should have. I kept a long way back, for fear he might turn about and see me, but I never let him out of my sight. It seemed as if I couldna. I was drawn on and on. If I lost sight of his green coat round a turn of the road, I was all distraught till I’d got sight of it again.

The bull-ring was well beyond the town, in a green meadow where a brook ran. And though if you’d gone a-walking in that green meadow any other day in the year, to gather lilies or forget-me-nots, or to walk beside the water, folk would have thought it a soft thing to do, it was all right and proper to-day, because they were going to kill a creature there.

The people in the road never noticed me, in my plain black, with my face hid in my bonnet. From a good way off I could see the ring, and the bright colours of the gowns and coats all jumbled together, and a deal of sad-colour from the coats of the working men who could seldom afford a best coat save the funeral coat of the family. I could see the bull, a little white one, tied to a staple in the wall of the bull-ring, which was a semicircle built of rough grey stones. The bright yellow sunshine held them all, as if they were bees in the mid of the honeycombs, and the blue air, the brown water, the green meadow were all so fair, I could not believe blood must be shed on such a day. I wonder to myself, times, if it was fair, clear weather on Golgotha when Mary looked up at the cross, and whether there was some small bird singing, and the bees busy in the clover. Ah! I think it was glass-clear weather, and bright. For no bitter lacked in that cup, and surely one of the bitterest things is to see the cruelty of man on some fair morning with blessing in it.

C H A P T E R T W O: _The Baiting_

AS I came nearer I saw that, as the custom was, not only all the women of Lullingford were there, but all the children as well. I thought it shame to bring these poor things, that would soon enough know the evil of the world, to see the dogs torn to ribbons and the hapless beast killed. I said so after to Gideon, but he thought nothing of it.

“Why, you’d make ’em as soft as ’ool,” he said. “They mun be brave and well-plucked.”

I said I couldna see that it was soft not to like to see a cruel deed, and that it seemed to me to be braver not to like seeing another’s pain.

“Well, well, we canna make the world, for it’s made already,” says Gideon.

There it all was, then, the crowd, the shouting and betting, the yapping and snarling of the dogs, people elbowing and pushing, men crying hot taters and chestnuts, apples, spiced ale, and gingerbread, children in their white pinnies watching the bull, very skeered, for it was grumbling to itself. Poor thing, it was thinking of its own big blackberry pasture at the back of Callard’s Dingle, I make no doubt. It hated neither men nor dogs, and had no grudge against any if only it could be back there, roving the meadows in the dew. There they all were, and there was Kester. I lost sight of him in the crowd, and hastened my steps, with a wonder in my heart the while what he could be doing in such a place. For I thought him to be a different kind of man from all these. Yet such faith I had in him that I was sure, if he was here, that he was here for good. And something drove me on, so that I must seek him in the crowd, and keep nigh him, as if I was his angel for that day. A poor angel, but God minds not much, I think, what like His angels be, so that they do His work proper. The shepherd’s collie that runs home to warn the missus that her man has fallen down the rock, is his angel sure enough, though he may be a mongrel of the very worst, with ears as flat as a spaniel.

Blindly and without reason, like the shepherd’s dog, I kept close to Kester Woodseaves, yet not so close that he might see me. So it was that I heard all he said to the men who stood round about the ring with their dogs, a bit apart from the crowd. And though they were men of my own countryside, and some of them known to me, yet I must say that there were among them a tuthree very evil faces. The dogs were fierce and ugly, many of ’em with great jowls, snarling and slavering and showing the red of their eyes. Yet if I had been bound to choose between men and dogs, I’d have chosen the dogs. Mostly they were terriers, but there were a good few bulldogs, and of these Grimble’s new one was far the worst, with a grin that sent me cold. There were one or two with a lot of mastiff in them, and there were a mort of mongrels.

The men all turned towards Kester when he came up, and Farmer Huglet, the chief of them, called out—

“Where’s your dawg?”

Mister Huglet was a great raw-looking man who seemed as if he’d come together accidental and was made up of two or three other people’s bodies. He was a giant, very nearly, and clumsy, with tremendous long arms, and so big round the middle that tailors who brought their own stuff always charged extra for his clothes. He’d got a mouth like a frog, and a round red snub nose, and such little eyes that they were lost in the mountains of flesh that made up his face. Whenever he couldna understand anything, he laughed, and his laugh was enough to frighten you. It came pretty often too. Grimble was hand-in-glove with him, and while Huglet stuck his red snub nose in the air, Grimble kept his long pale one down, so between them they didna miss much. They’d each got two dogs.

“Why, it’s weaver,” says Grimble. “Dunna you know weaver, Huglet?”

“Why, no, we hanna crossed paths afore. My brother-law weaves for me, you mind. Well, weaver, where’s your dawg?”

“I’ve got none.”

“No dawg? Stand aside, then.”

But he stood where he was. It so happed that he was about at the mid of the half-moon of grey stone that made the bull-ring, and the men with the dogs fell away a bit on either hand, so he was alone. Standing there so slim and straight in his green coat, with the airs blowing his hair a bit, so that a lock of it fell o’er his brow, his hat being under arm, he seemed to have nought to do with any there, but to be a part of the fair meadow, that matched his coat. He wore no beard nor whiskers, so you could see the shape and colour and the lines of all his face, which seemed to me to be a face you could never tire of looking on. Times I wonder if heaven will be thus, a long gazing on a face you canna tire of, but must ever have one more glimpse. He had a kind of arrowy look, so that though Huglet towered over him, he seemed to tower over Huglet. He looked round about and said—

“Chaps, I’ve come to ask ye to stop this.”

There was a long, bepuzzled silence. Then Huglet laughed and slapped his thigh, and roared again. Grimble looked at his boots and gave a snigger.

“Well, that’s a good un!” shouted Huglet “Stop the bull-baiting, oot, young fellow?”

“Ah. I’d lief stop it.”

“And what for would you stop it, dear ’eart?” asked Grimble in a soft, sing-song voice.

“Stop it?” roars Huglet, “he _canna_ stop it.”

“I’d lief it was stopped over all England.”

“You’d lief a deal, young man. Why, I tell ye there’s bin bull-baiting in England ever since it _was_ England! Take away the good old sport and it wouldna _be_ England!”

All this he said in the same loud roaring voice.

“I asked ye, what for would ye stop it?” repeated Grimble, soft and obstinate.

“Because it’s a cruel, miserable business.”

“It inna cruel. The dawgs like it. They enjoy it. And the bull likes it right well.”

Mister Grimble looked down at the trampled grass for all the world as if he was reading the words there.

“What’s it matter if they enjoy it or not? _I_ enjoy it!” says Huglet. “That’s enough, inna it?”

The other men drew round. For though it was the ordinary thing to hear Mister Huglet shouting fit to burst, it was out of the common to hear him shouting so long at one person. When Huglet shouted like he was doing now, folk said that the person he was shouting at always gave in and went away quiet.

“What be trouble?” asked Mister Callard, the owner of the bull. Mister Huglet turned round and spluttered out—

“This here borsted fellow wants to stop the baiting. The baiting, mind, as we all come a many weary mile to see.”

“Rising up a great while afore day,” puts in Mister Grimble.

“Dear now! And missus and me at such trouble to bring the beast along bright and early. Whatever ails the mon?”

He looked at Kester as the apothecary will look at a man a long while sick.

“Ah,” says the landlord of the _Mug o’ Cider_, “I’ve heard tell of folks as wanted to stop the long kneeling. I’ve even heard of a tuthree as wanted to stop wars and rumours of wars, but bull-baiting? Never in life! Whoever, save a few fratchety parsons, did ever want to stop a baiting?”

“He must be going a bit simple, poor fellow,” says Grimble. “Feel well, weaver?”

The miller came up and had a look, shook his head, and went away, which was a great deal for the miller to do.

“But what _for_ do ye want to stop it, like?” says Mister Callard, very puzzled.

“I’ve told ’em why. Never mind all that. Look ye, Mister Callard, ool ye sell the bull to me?”

“Sell un?”

“Ah, I wunna argle and bargle over the price.”

“But it wouldna be worth my while. I’ll get more, a power, by letting un fight. Win, and I’ll be a rich mon. Lose, and I get best butcher’s price from the ring owners, seesta?”

“What ud you make if he won?”

“Twenty pound.”

“I’ll give you twenty pound, and you can take the beast away.”

“God bless me!” says Mister Callard. “Oh, God bless me, I’m sure.”

He stared at Kester as if he was spirit-struck.

“Bargain?” says Kester.

Missis Callard, who never spoke but after Callard spoke, and then said the same thing, and never did ought but what she was told to do, came up all in a flusker, leading the bull.

“Take the gentleman’s offer, Father! Take it, my dear!” she said, all out of breath. “Take the twenty pound and us’ll lead the darling whome.”

Callard was so astounded at her daring to speak that he could only keep on saying—

“God bless me!”

“God bless ye, is it?” says Huglet, beginning to roar again. “I’ll give ye God bless ye if you do any such thing, Callard. Dang me! Spoil all our sport for twenty pound! I’ll larn ye! And you too, young man!”

“Oh, but he mun be worse than sawft or simple, he mun be stark raving mad to offer twenty pound for the little beast and then give back what he’s bought,” says Grimble. “Oh, I could cry! Yet the poor chap was all right Monday was a fortnit, weaving for us as nice as nice. But he’s gone wrong in the yead since, surely to goodness! Oh, dear me!”

He wiped his face and seemed quite taken-to.

Kester pulled out his wallet and offered Callard the money. It was pretty well all his uncle left him, I doubt.

By this, Missis Callard had called all the children to her, for they had five children as well as the baby, and she whispered ’em, and all of a sudden they cried out together, “Take it, Feyther! Take it, honoured Feyther! We beseech thee to hear us!”

At the surprise of that, Mister Callard seemed to be quite moithered, and he reached out his hand to Kester for the money. But Mister Huglet struck it down.

“I wunna be robbed of my sport!” he said. “Dunna you dare take it, Callard. We want our sport, I tell ye!”

All the men with dogs looked black and muttered—

“Ah, that’s righteous! That’s gospel! We want our sport!”

“Chaps,” says Kester, very pleading, “it be pity on so fine a day to set one poor creature to tear another. Devil’s work, it be. If it’s fighting you want, why canna you wrostle, or box man to man? Look ye! To make a bit of sport, I’ll take any six of ye on, one after other, to wrostle. The one that beats me by most shall take my coat, and the next shall take my hat and weskit. Now then!”

Nobody said anything, only they shuffled a bit, and looked here and there. Everybody seemed to know that Kester was a very good wrostler, and nobody seemed to take to the job. Mister Grimble looked at Kester as if he hated him. And it was plain, by what came next, that he did, in very truth. For now, having made up his mind not to play second any more to Mister Huglet, he up and said—

“The young man speaks well. Now, I’ll fall in with all he says and agree to the stopping of the baiting this day, on one condition.”

“Out with it,” says Kester.

“That you take on the dawgs yerself.”

Mister Grimble gave a spiteful cackling laugh, and Mister Huglet roared agen.

“Got ye there, me lad!” he shouted. And Grimble said—

“You may love the dumb creatures ooth yer purse, but ye wunna go so far as to love em ooth yer own blood!”

“Go on with the baiting!” orders Mister Huglet.

“Tie the beast up agen,” says Mister Callard to his missus, who was standing by, eager to hand it over to Kester, so as he could give it back as he said.

“Whose dawg drew first?”

Mister Huglet took no more notice of Kester, but went on with the arrangements.

“Mister Towler’s dawg drew first, and _Mug o’ Cider_ second,” said one of the owners of the bull-ring.

“Come forrard, Towler.”

Kester stood very still, eyeing Mister Grimble till he got quite put about. For he didna seem to want to meet Kester’s eye.

“That ud be the best bit of sport ever you had, eh, Mister Grimble?” says Kester at last. “To see a man baited like a bull.”

“Why, nobody ud be such a fool.”

Kester looked round.

“Chaps!” he says, “if so be as I agree to Mister Grimble’s plan and take on the dogs one by one, not to kill ’em, but to put ’em on chain with nought but my bare hands, and they as savage as you like, if I do this at my own risk, will ye give it me in writing as there wunna be another baiting in Lullingford for ten years? And if I fail to put any dog on chain, I’ve lost and the baiting goes on.”

Everybody’s tongue was loosed at that.

“God bless me!”

“Dear to goodness!”

“Domm it!”

“Well, that beats all, dang it!”

“Daze my ’ouns!”

There was a regular clack of voices.

One or two called out that they wouldna agree to it. But mostly they were very curious to see what would come of it, and as it was known that the parson didna like the baitings and had been werriting the squire to put a stop to them, everybody thought they might be stopped soon anyway, and so they might as well have the fun, for this was a chance of rare sport, and the like of it had never been seen in the place.

When Mister Huglet could speak for laughing, he explained to all the people what was doing.

“Hands up for it!” he called out.

All but about a dozen held up their hands.

“Done!” says Mister Huglet “And done _for_, my fine feller!”

I caught hold of Miller’s Tim and told him to go to Kester and whisper as Grimble’s dog was a new one, and extra bad in temper. But indeed I felt that neither this nor anything was any manner of use, and I couldna think of ought to do. But one thing I was determined on, I’d keep nigh him, and when he was down I’d rush in and drag him away, and if Grimble interfered it ud be the worse for un. There’s none so fierce as a loving woman, and it always seemed a strange thing to me that the Mother of Jesus could keep her hands off the centurion, and it could only have been because her Son had given orders afore. But indeed if it had been me, I think I should have forgot the orders.

Tim came running back, and I saw those strong blue eyes follow and settle on me for a breath. Then I hid behind Missis Callard.

“He knowed it,” says Tim. “But obleeged all the same.”

I went to the refreshment booth and stole the carving-knife. But almost afore it was hidden under my flounced skirt I saw that there was to be no need of it, anyway for a while. There was to be summat more like a miracle than anything I’ve seen afore. This was the way of it.

“Go to the mid of the wall,” says Huglet, “and fasten the dawgs to the bull chain. And if you fasten either of mine, I’ll give ye five shilling, me lad! Oh, I could bust a-laughing to see anybody be such a fool!”

“Mister Towler’s dawg!” says the head of the ring.

“Ready!”

They loosed Towler’s terrier, the savagest little beast in the place.

“At ’im! Bite ’im!” shouts Towler, and I was like to faint. And then it came to pass.

Kester stepped forward.

“Well, Bingo!” he says. “Good dog!”

Bingo stopped, looked at Towler as much as to say he’d made a mistake, and ran to Kester as pleased as Punch, wagging tail and fawning round.

“We be friends, binna we?” says Kester.

Towler gave a curse, and Huglet looked as black as night. But nobody could say it wunna fair and square, and some of the better sort laughed and said, “Good for you, lad!”

It was the same with the _Mug o’ Cider_ dog, and the next. As the owners came up to fetch them when they were on the chain, they looked very old-fashioned and taken aback.

Kester laughed.

“I like a dog,” he says. “Dumb things be my fancy. You couldna know it, but so it is, and I can only see one dog here as inna friend to me, being new-come to these parts.”

“Ah,” says Grimble, “you wunna play yer May-games with Toby. Indeed to goodness, if you get off with your life you’ll do well.”

All in a minute I thought of a better thing than the carving-knife, though I kept that in case of need. I’d run to the town for the apothecary, there being no doctor in the place, to have him there in case of harm. There were a sight more dogs yet, for they wouldna let him off any. There met be time if I was quick. So, with the carving-knife still under my dress, I edged out of the crowd, got into the road and ran for dear life. But afore I went, I took one look at him I did love, since if I wasna quick enough I might never see him alive again.

He was laughing, and Huglet was leading one of his dogs away. Though Kester didna weave for Huglet, he’d made friends with his dogs on market days, outside the _Mug o’ Cider_, seemingly. He’d such a way with animals that a tuthree minutes was enough, and they were friends to him for ever.

And as I looked back, it seemed to me, though I told myself it must be fancy, that those eyes, so live and bright, dwelt on me, and smiled at me, friended me and pled with me, being as are the eyes of a man when he looks long upon his dear acquaintance, who has given her peace for his, her soul to his keeping, and her body for his joy.

But as I ran I said to myself—

“Nay, Prue Sarn, you be nought but his angel, and a poor daggly sort of angel, too.”

And all the blue bird’s eye in the hedge banks went into a mist of tears as I ran, and looked no more like flowers, but like a blue tide of sorrow to drown me.

C H A P T E R T H R E E: “_The Best Tall Script, Flourished_”

I MAY say I went over the distance to the town quicker than it’s been done this long while. I hid the carving-knife in the hedge, for fear of tripping over it. The apothecary’s was open, as I thought, for he was churchwarden, and couldna go agen the parson. I never saw the big green and red bottles look so beautiful, as if they were full of water from Paradise river. Inside there was a pleasant dusk, for the little window was so close-set with liniments and medicines, drenches for horses, simples for cows, plaisters, cordials, and bunches of yarbs that you couldna see at all. It smelt very pleasantly of peppermint, yarbs and soap, and the apothecary looked at me kindly over his spectacles and asked what the matter was.

“Why, sir, it’s murder, pretty nigh,” I says. “I do beseech you to shut up the shop and come, or such a man as this town never saw afore, nor will again, will be done to death.”

He pulled on his boots, good man, at that.

“What remedies must I bring?” he says. “You can tell me the rest as we run.”

So I told him summat for dog-bites and summat to bring a man round when he was near death. In a minute he clapped his hat on, and off we went.

“Take a sup of brandy,” he says. “You’re nigh done.”

But I told him, no, only if I fell behind he must hasten on to the bull-ring.

I fell back just afore we got to the carving-knife, and caught up again at the field gate. As we came in I could see an awful struggle going on, for we were only just in time. He’d finished but for Grimble’s dog.

As we came up there was a roar. He’d got the dog chained. Then there was another roar, and I saw (oh, my dear love!) that the dog had got him by the throat.

I caught Grimble’s shoulder.

“Take yer dog off!” I said.

Grimble never stirred.

A second of that grip and he as I loved so dear ud be dead and cold.

I rushed forrard, I, that had never wilfully hurt any living creature, and as the great beast stood reared with his teeth in my maister’s throat, I ran him through the heart.

The blood spurted, and the heavy body fell down all of a heap, and Kester with it.

I pulled him away and dragged the dog’s jaws apart. There seemed to be no life in Kester.

“Water!” I says to Huglet, who chanced to be nighest.

“Fetch water, you murderer! Brandy, Mister Camlet, please!”

He stooped over Kester.

“I mun burn the bite,” he said. “Best do it afore we bring him round. But how to heat the iron?”

I stood up. I cared for nobody. They couldna have been more feared if I’d been a savage queen.

“Six men pick up sticks!” I says. “And quick about it! And you, Grimble, find flint and tinder.”

“I hanna got one,” he muttered.

“Find one!” I screamed like a wild thing, holding up the knife. “Find one, or—”

The fire was blazing quicker than it takes to tell it. We poured a little brandy down Kester’s throat, to keep the spark of life in, then Mister Camlet burnt the bite, and Kester awoke with a shout of agony, for being in a dead swound he hadna been ready for the pain.

“There, there, my dear!” I says. For the shriek went through my heart. “There, there. It be done now! None shall touch you now.”

Mister Camlet bound him up, and I washed his face with cold water and gave him more brandy.

“Not a deep wound,” says Mister Camlet. “We were only just in time, though.”

“We couldna help but be in time,” I says, “I be his angel for to-day.”

And with that the green field swam up afore me and I swounded clean away. When I came to myself there were Gideon and Jancis sitting by me on the grass, and all the folks were gone.

“Where be he?” I says.

“Who? Weaver?” says Jancis. “He be all right and cared for. They’ve took him back to Lullingford, and Missis Callard’ll stop with him.”

“She’s mighty pleased with the little bull,” said Gideon. “You saved that chap’s life, and no mistake, Prue. I never saw the like! We were just coming in at the field gate, and I looked across and saw you. ‘By gum!’ I says. And that was all I did say. I ran, and Jancis ran, but you’d done for the owd dog afore we could come at you. You take the medal, Prue!”

“You canna ride home, Prue. Shall I run and ask Miller to take her, Sarn? And couldna I come back and give her a hand with the work for a day or two?”

“You can ask Miller and welcome. It’s a good thought. But as for coming back, you know very well you’re Grimble’s vessel-maid now, till three years.”

“I didna want to be. It’s you and Feyther made me.”

“Well, but you’ve seen the house, hanna you? You’ll be working for that and the ’unt Ball and the silver plate.”

“Ah. I’ve seen the house, and I think it looks a dark, bitter old place, for all it’s new, and I’d liefer never go to no ’unt Ball than lead the life of a driven slave.”

She was crying, but it made no manner of difference to Gideon.

“You’ve got to go to Grimble’s and you’ve got to go to the ’unt Ball in good time, so why make such a ding-dong?”

“But why must I, Sarn?”

“Because my mind’s set.”

It was almost as if he said, “Because I’m in the stocks.” As if his maid called him to come maying, but, feet and hands, he was fast bound.

When she was gone, they gave me a sup of tea at the _Mug o’ Cider_, for I was all of a tremble still, and then Miller helped me up into the gig, and the old coach horse, that had known the merry sound of the horn tooting, and the sudden light and commotion at the turnpikes, when they rushed out in the dead dark to open, laboured into a trot. For indeed he seemed much of Missis Miller’s mind, caring not if he never saw home again. Missis Miller had nought to say, Miller as usual had nought also, and Polly was asleep. After a while Missis Miller and Tim went to sleep too. We drove on sadly in the chilly evening. It was dusk, and then it was dark. Gideon was far ahead, for Bendigo was a good trotter, though aged. The mill pony, tied to the back of the gig, clopped onwards with a sorrowful sound.

It suited me, the quiet and the melancholy, for I was sad and quiet too. He that I loved was hurt, and I couldna get to him. There he lay, as weak as a babe, and only Missis Callard to tend him. I forgot that she, having six, was well knowledged in tending helpless folk, for it is the way of lovers to think that none can bless or succour their love but their own selves. And there is a touch of truth in it, maybe more than a touch. We went on and on, through country that was neither hilly nor flat, in a night neither dark nor gleamy, feeling neither glad nor sorry. I thought we were like people bound for some place beyond the world that was neither hell nor heaven. Our six heads, counting the nag’s, all nid-nodded, and I think we were all asleep, even the old coach horse, when the miller spoke, out of his sleep, I do believe.

“I canna abide ’em,” he said, with a nod toerts his wife and children. “I wish they were kit-cats, to drown in mill-pond. I wish the world and all was a kit-cat.”

He said no more. It was like when they say the creed, solemn and choppy. That was all the miller ever said to me, and I do think he said it in his sleep. On we went, till we came to the dark mill, the soundless water, like soft black crape. The others got out and untied the pony, and Miller drove me back to Sarn. The night was full of the smell of water and moss, with a drift of primrose scent now and again. I thought of the weaver’s house, that seemed built of a spell, and him, lying there in the kitchen with the loom, his face barred with the shadow of it, cast by the rushlight, his hair all tousled and damp with the sweat of pain.

“If Missis Callard spoke unkind to him, I could slap her babby,” I thought. But I knew she wouldna. She was a good soul, though I always thought she must have had a mind like a shell, hollow, to echo other people as she did.

When we came to our place, there was Mother on the door-sill, very consarned. She said what nobody else had, and what I’d never thought of.

“You met ha’ been killed, Prue!”

She sat down and began to cry, so I had to laugh at her and ask for summat to eat, to show I was alive all right. So then she got me such a meal as never was, though she should by rights have been asleep hours. Seemingly Gideon had told her some sort of tale, but she must know more. She wasna to be satisfied, but kept on wanting more. She put on her spectacles and looked at me very attentive, sitting there in the big oak chair. I was quite put-about with her staring so, with that still look of a sitting bird when somebody comes and spies at her, and she never winks nor flinches, but just looks back with sharp brown eyes, as much as to say, “I’ll stand by what’s mine.” Mother seemed to be looking past me at summat that threatened me. Maybe it was my Fate, as she thought it to be. It was summat that threatened to do me harm, I’m sure, for after a bit Mother looked very defiant and sat up ever so straight and said—

“We’ll have the weaver.”

Just as if somebody forbade her to have him.

She said nought of all I’d told her, never a word about it being a foolish or forrard thing to save a strange young man’s life without with your leave or by your leave. She only kept on giving little nods now and again, and saying—

“Ah. Come summer, we’ll have weaver.”

Then she said she’d go to bed now, and I went and wrote in my book.

There was no change in our lives, only it was quieter without Jancis coming in of a Sunday. The Stone House seemed very lonesome lacking her, and Missis Beguildy not half the woman she had been. She seemed to cling to me, and kept talking of the little ways and sayings of Jancis as if she was dead. This made Beguildy very angry, for in truth he was sorry Jancis was gone, not only because of the young squire, but because in her unhandy way she’d got through a good bit of work. He’d say, “Now, hush thy noise, woman. The wench’ll be back in no time, with twenty pound in hand, dear me. Now, dunna go to talk of her as if she was dead, fool! A gamesome lusty young woman the like of that! Many’s the golden pound her’ll put in our pockets, when she’s learnt her duty, and given over hankering after a man as was born under the threepenny planet, and’ll come to be drowned. No offence meant, Prue, and none taken I’m in behopes. You ploughed the gorsty bit right tidy, Prue, and us’ll do word of four synnables this day, if you’ve a mind.”

Oh, there’s no doubt Beguildy was a very queer old man. I was used to think if he’d had a good education he met have been one of these great men we all think so much of. A great scholar he could have been, or a music-man, or a rhymer, or a preacher. And maybe if all of his mind had been used proper, he wouldna have brought ruination on hisself as he did. Ah! And on more than hisself. But that we cannot know. We are His mommets that made us, I do think. He takes us from the box, whiles, and saith, “Dance now!” or maybe it must bow, or wave a hand or fall down in a swound. Then He puts it back in box, for the part is played. It may be a Mumming, or a Christmas or Easter play, or a tragedy. That is as He pleases. The play is of His making. So the evil mommets do His will as well as the good, since they act the part set for them. How would it be if the play came to the hour when the villainous man must do evilly, and see! he is on his knee-bones at his prayers. Then the play would be in very poor case. There was a mommet once called Judas, and if he had started away from his set part in fear, we should none of us have been saved. Which is all a very strange mystery, and so we must leave it. But it being so, I think we do wrongly to blame ill-doers too hardly. It is a dreadful fate to be obleeged to act in a curst ugly way, when surely none would choose it. “Needs be that offences come.” How should Gabriel show his skill with a two-edged sword if Lucifer wouldna fight? “But woe be to him by whom they come.” Ah! So if the play has a murder in it, or if a good maid is brought to shame, a mommet must be found to do the bad work, though very like, if they could choose, never a one but would say, “Not me, Maister!” Only they know nought. For I think we be not very different from the beasts, that work deathly harms in the dark of their minds, knowing nothing, weltering in blood, crouching and springing on their prey, with a sound of shrieks in the night, and yet all the while as innicent as a babe. And I think we be not very much other than the storms that raven in the forest, and the hungry fire that licks up lives in a moment, and the lips of the water, sucking in our kin. It is all in the Play. But if we be chosen for a pleasant, merry part, how thankful we ought to be, giving great praise, and helping those less fortunate, and even being grateful to that poor mommet which goeth about night and day to work our destruction. For it might have been the other way.

So, in spite of all, I was always sorry for Beguildy, though, dear knows, he was the villain in our story.

We had a very middling crop that summer, both of grass and grain. Our lives went to the same tune, with no change, saving that Mother was as good as her word and did send for Kester.

I thought she seemed very busy all that June, spinning as if it was ever so, till even Gideon gave a word of praise. Then one day she said—

“There’s such a deal spun, I shall be obleeged to send for Weaver.”

But I was settled in my mind not to see him, so the day he was coming, about the end of hay harvest, I took the brummock and went hedging in the far fields where none would find me.

“I’m going hedging, Mother,” I says, “I’ll take some bread and cheese. Can you see to the young turkeys and tell Gideon he must make shift with the milking, for I shanna be back till dark.”

What must she do but begin to wring her hands and keep on saying under breath—

“Oh, the pity, the pity, to be so curst!”

But go I did. And when I raught home, there in my attic were the bits of wool and thread he’d left, and a very pleasant smell of tobacco. For he liked to smoke a bit while he worked. And just by the corner of the loom what should I find but a blue-and-white handkerchief, which I very dishonestly did put in my locker, and turned the key with great satisfaction. I said to myself in a kind of gloating way that some day I’d launder it, and roll it up with a bit of lavender, and send it back. But not yet.

Mother was full of tales about the weaver. Oh, he was such a kind man, and strong, and so considerate! I thought I could have told her that. Like a son to her, he’d been, she said. I should ha’ seen him a-sitting on the settle at his tea. I dare say, I thought, and lose my heart worse than ever! “Wanted to know if I’d any other family besides Sarn,” she said. “So I told un.”

“Oh, Mother, what did you tell him?” I said.

“I told un I’d got the best girl in the ’orld, and a good daughter to me, and very jimp and slender, with a long, silky plait to the knees, and dark, meltin’ eyes, and such pleasant ways, merry and mocking and pitiful. Ah! I told un! Proper, I did! And I told un you could do the tall script and the short, and that Beguildy was learning you to read, and that you could do words of four synnables now.”

“Dear to goodness, Mother,” I said, “what a tale you made out!”

“No tale, my dear, for ’tis the truth.”

“Did you say ought of Gideon’s letters? I mean, did you say I wrote ’em?”

“Why, no, my dear. Sarn met not ha’ liked it, nor Jancis, nor you.”

“No. You’ve got a lot of sense, Mother.”

“It was always said in our family as I had, my dear.”

“So Weaver thinks we’re a very well educated family, I make no doubt, Mother, and he’ll take it for gospel that Gideon writes the letters.”

After, when I was helping her to bed, I took courage to say—

“Did you tell Weaver I was hare-shotten?”

“No, no, my dear! What for should I do that?”

“Only he met be thinking of me a bit, seeing you said such things, and then if he met me ever—”

“Well, my dear, if he met you, and he’s the man I think him, he’d be bound to like you right well,” says Mother roundly.

When I’d tucked her in, she catched my hand.

“Prue, should you care if he’d got but one leg, or one arm, or was all pitted with the smallpox?”

“Care, Mother?” I cried out all in a minute and never thinking, “of course I shouldna care. I should love un the more for it!”

“I knowed you did, my dear,” says Mother, very contented. “I knowed you loved the man. And I’m right glad of it. Now, dunna you hide from him, Prue. Be well plucked and risk all, like a good player in the game of Costly Colours.”

“No, no! Never will I. Oh, Mother, it was unkind in you to catch me like that!”

“I only wanted to know, Prue. I be getting ancient and old, and the time draws nigh when life’ll be a burden. I’d lief know as there was good in store for the best girl ever.”

She looked out and away through the little moony window, with the dark round blots that were red roses pressed on the panes, and the silver sky dim, and not starry, but very kind-seeming, and she seemed to be listening to summat. Then she said—

“I do believe all shall be well with you, Prue. It’s come to my heart as soft as dew, and as sweet as a red rose, that you’ll get love as well as give it. After my time, though, after my time. But no matter for that, so I do know it’s to come.”

I felt a shiver of strangeness in the night.

“What is it, my dear?” I asked her. “Is it the second sight?”

“No. I see nought. But I feel it within me.”

“You be well, be you, Mother?” I said, for I was afraid she might be slipping from me, since the dying are ever so.

But she said, yes, she was in her daily health, and well, and not going to die this many a day, only it came on her at the thought of Weaver, and how he’d said—

“Well, single I am, and single shall stay, I do believe. But if ever I did think of asking to wed, it ud be just such another as that’n.”

At the end of corn harvest Gideon asked me to write his second letter to Jancis.

We were having our suppers on the bench under the dairy window. After, I fetched the ink and said what should I write? So he said I must write that he was well and hoped she was, and she was to be a good girl and work hard and not ask for any early money for clo’es or boots, but think of all that was to come, and it was a middling harvest, and her father still in the same mind about the young squire, who was about coming back from the Low Countries next year with his pockets full of money, and the big longhorn cow had calved, but dropped her calf like the gwerian she was, and to tell Mister Grimble he could do with a few lambs when he fetched them off the hills for the winter, but no sign of fut-rot, or home they’d come, dang-swang, and so no more from G. Sarn.

Then he said, “Put in as I’ll see her, Christmas market, if Grimbles ool bring her.”

I said I’d do the best I could, and did it matter if I put in a bit more? And I couldna help but laugh, for it did seem such a peculiar letter for a fellow to write to his sweetheart. And Gideon looked up very sharp and said, why did I want to write more? So I said the pen did run away sometimes, and he said he supposed it wunna easy to know quite what you were at when you started writing, and God save him from such foolishness, and so long as I put in all he’d told me I might put in some as well, if I’d a mind.

So I wrote it.

SARN.
_September Twenty-six._

MY DEAR SWEETHEART—

It do seem a long while since your letter, which was a beauty,
and I kissed it a good few times. You know very well how to do a
love letter. I can see the two of you at it, your golden hair
shining and your pretty face bent down, and Weaver smiling a
bit, and looking well amused, with those eyes that would ’tice
any girl away from her own man, and mind you dunna fall in love
with anybody but me, if possible. Maybe I shall see you at the
Christmas market. Tell Weaver that all Mother’s tales of our
Prue be made-ups, for she’s very ornary in every way. Tell
Mister Grimble I could do with a few lambs. Tell Weaver when he
goes nigh Huglet’s he might carry a gun as well as not, for
Huglet’s got an awful dog now, and I hope all’s well betwixt
Weaver and Grimble. If there’s ever any sewing work Weaver wants
done, being a lone womanless man, I’ve got two women in my
house, Mother and sister, both glad of a job at a fair price,
and red cabbage pickle and damson cheese they maken, which pays
them very well to sell at half market price, and a charity to
employ them. It’s a middling harvest, longhorn’s dropped her
calf, young Camperdine’s expected back next year, and if they’ve
gotten fut-rot, back they’ll come, dang-swang, and so good-bye
for now, and take all care of self. In the beginning of a cough
take a lemon and crushed honeycomb fire-hot, and you be my
dearest, dearest love as I’d spend my life for very willing any
time, and die for you by bite of dog or any way, my dear, and so
good night, from your lover

GIDEON SARN.

That is a nice text, “The Maister be come.”